


a love letter, maybe

by Woodswolf



Category: Lego Ninjago
Genre: F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heartache, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love Confessions, Memories, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 04:39:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woodswolf/pseuds/Woodswolf
Summary: it hurts, not knowing what she’s thinking. but he can’t change things now; it’s yet another thing he’s forced to bear, to confess to himself. it’s something else that he can never speak of again, to himself or otherwise, but…Please,come back.





	a love letter, maybe

there was always something about her – something he could never quite name.

maybe it was the soft glances, the gentle silences, the fingers barely touching yet still lingering for a single heartbeat too long. maybe it was the experiences they shared – their children, their intellectual pursuits, their drives to achieve. maybe it was a side effect of rubbing elbows with each other almost constantly for such a long time.

maybe it was that night on the beach, so long ago. that evening when he’d observed from a safe distance while she stared into the sunset. that moment when the sun finally fell below the horizon, and the green flash appeared for a single instant. that moment when she’d gasped in wonder, and the wind gasped with her, blowing a single lock of hair out of her careful braid. that moment when she’d absentmindedly tucked it back behind her left ear.

is he in love with her?

he doesn’t know. this – this relationship, this attachment, this… _connection_ – it doesn’t feel the same as the one he shares with zane ~~or echo~~. he loves his son ~~s~~ , more than ~~t~~ he ~~y~~ could ever know, but this, with her… it’s a mix of foreign and familiar, new and old, curiosity and satisfaction, reality and dream. it’s halfway between outlandish and ordinary, somewhere beyond the edge of silence but still making sound. it exists without really existing, hangs in the balance between hope and fear – and lies in the stillness of life and death.

just as he does now. he’s lying on the same floor that he has been for god knows how long now – he almost wishes he’d brought a clock, so he could watch the seconds tick off into oblivion. the ticking would drive him mad, but he’d give everything in the world to not be in the here and now.

the rotting _hurts._ it hurts more than anything else in his entire life – being brought back from the dead, nearly starving to death – even more than being flung around the fiery backstage, being cut and scratched and bruised, being burned across his back badly enough to leave permanent scars. he doesn’t know how long ago he stopped writhing from the pain, but he still would be if he hadn’t lost the ability to move his limbs.

so he’s of two minds now: the one that screams in mortal agony, and the one that waits in lonely silence – the one that waits for the other to finish up, for it to _expire_ already. he knows by now that his _“condition”_ is undoubtedly magical in nature, and he has a few guesses about what caused it – but he’s too far gone now to be cured; he’s long past the point of no return. it’s a waiting game now, to see which will last longer: his flesh, or the last remnants of his sanity.

his whole life… his whole life has been waiting. waiting for success and recognition to find him. waiting for the rain. waiting for redemption. waiting for the skeletons to return. waiting for an opportunity to intervene. waiting for the food to run out.

waiting for his son to find him, and for his father to return from across the sea.

he remembers all of this – all of these in-between times – like they were happening right now. and on some level, they are; it’s the same introspective experience that he shares with each of his past selves. once again, just like all those times before, he’s locked in his own head, with nothing and no one there for company. all he has now are his own memories, all of his many, many regrets, and near-infinite time to dwell on them… which is why his thoughts ultimately return to her, at least this time.

he doesn’t even know where to begin. he wishes that she hadn’t been taken out of his life as suddenly as she’d arrived in it. he wishes that they’d had more time together, that the little maybe-spark of something could’ve been given time to grow. he wishes he’d told her – something, _anything_ – before it was too late.

but she’s gone now, out of his life for what might as well be forever. more likely than not, he’ll never see nor hear from her again.

he’s grieved too much in his life for it to mean anything anymore. there’s been too much loss and heartache and fear, too much sadness and shame and silence. he’s always been grieving, and he probably always will be, over one thing or another.

but this… her…

absence makes the heart grow fonder; maybe she was just a pretty face he’d happened to cross along the way. but it doesn’t feel so insubstantial as that – there was something there, between the two of them, like a physical rope tying them together. but it was cut as suddenly as it had been knotted, and now he’s left grasping onto the fraying ends.

he doesn’t know if he’s in love with her, or even what it would mean if he was. but he knows he misses her, dearly, more than she’ll likely ever know – and he knows she’ll move on, forget about him, and try to leave all of this in the past.

it hurts, not knowing what she’s thinking. but he can’t change things now; it’s yet another thing he’s forced to bear, to confess to himself. it’s something else that he can never speak of again, to himself or otherwise, but…

**_Please,_ ** _come back._

he sends the thought off to the horizon, watches it spin away into the sunset. he doubts she’ll ever see it, but he’s doubted all the other strange coincidences that have happened in his life, too – so he has no choice but to believe.

he hopes, and he prays, and he dreams…

and possibly, somewhere out there, she’s reading his love letter, maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> i miss you, Please.


End file.
